Encounter Between Kindred Spirits
by Darkover
Summary: A little girl is curious about the man she sees locked in a cage. It turns out that in spite of appearances, their situations are not so very different.


12

Title: "Encounter Between Kindred Spirits"

Author: Darkover

Rating: T, just to be on the safe side: implied child abuse

Disclaimer: Neither the characters of "Gladiator" nor the characters of "A Song of Ice and Fire" are owned by me, and I am not pretending otherwise. So far as I know, the latter is owned by their author, the talented George R.R. Martin. I do not know who owns the rights to "Gladiator," except that it is not I. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery; please do not sue me.

Summary: A little girl is curious about the man she sees locked in a cage. It turns out that in spite of appearances, their situations are not so very different.

~ooo0ooo~

Maximus was in the cage with the other gladiators, sharpening his sword, when the child approached the bars. At first he only glanced in her direction, but then he looked back in quick amazement.

The child, a little girl, was one of the most beautiful Maximus had ever seen, and all the more impressive because of the unconventionality of her looks. Apparently she was not a Roman, for she was very light-skinned, with white-blonde hair so pale it looked silver in the morning sunlight, and eyes so blue they seemed violet in color. She stood before the bars, not touching them, not reaching through to touch, but gazing at him solemnly. When his eyes met hers, she looked down quickly; not blushing like a maiden, and not out of guilt at staring at him as if he were an exotic animal like one of Proximo's giraffes. It was more like an act of submission. Maximus had the sudden, strange, but unshakable conviction that the girl was used to being tyrannized, perhaps even abused. He was more sensitive to such thoughts now, quicker both to form such impressions and to heed them, having gone from being a General in the army of Rome, to a slave himself.

But the child did not look like a slave. Not just because she was too young to make a useful one—she could not have been over six years of age, at most, but because she was too well dressed. She wore a dress of rich cloth, and her little sandals were embroidered with gold. Her small hands were too fine for her to be anything but a child of the ruling class, even if she did not act like one. Maximus had an abrupt, horrible thought that she might have been purchased for one of the pleasure houses; she was certainly beautiful enough to make a valuable courtesan. But that seemed unlikely, for if that were the case, she would have not been allowed to wander the streets on her own, lest she try to escape.

Maximus put the sword aside, rose from his seat and walked toward the girl, determined to find out what she was doing here. Rationally, he knew there was nothing he could do even if his fears for her were true and the child was destined for a brothel, but there was just something about her that awakened all his protective instincts, both as a man and as a father.

As he approached her, the girl lifted her head slightly and regarded him timidly, taking a step back, just out of his reach, as he neared the bars. While this might have been simply because he was large, strong, and must have appeared quite intimidating to a child as young and as small as she, Maximus somehow doubted if that was the reason. Again he had the impression that she was used to fearing the worst, because no one would protect her. He glanced around as he came within touching distance of the bars, expecting to see a slave child-minder or perhaps the child's mother or father. There was no sign of any such adult who might have this little one in her or his care, which only confirmed Maximus' impression that this little girl was either neglected or abused. A child this young, especially a girl-child of such beauty, should not be out on the streets unattended. But no one in the crowd milling about the street paid her any heed. The girl seemed to have approached the gladiators' cage on her own.

"Hello," the little girl said, so softly that Maximus barely heard the word over the bustle of the crowd.

He smiled down at her. "Hello," he said gently.

Perhaps encouraged by this response, the girl, whose gaze had been somewhere in the vicinity of his knees, lifted her eyes as if by an act of will, upward to Maximus' face. "Wh—why are you in a cage? D-did you do something bad?"

The former general blinked, surprised. "No, child. I am a gladiator."

"What's that?" Her voice was still soft, but it was a little stronger now, and contained a note of curiosity.

"I am a man who fights other men in the arena."

Her eyes widened. "Why?"

"For sport. For the entertainment of the crowd." He could not keep the bitterness out of his voice. "People enjoy it."

"People *like* to see men fight?" She seemed puzzled by this.

"Many do."

"I don't!" The little girl declared. "I hate it when people fight. If it were up to me, no one would ever fight." She lowered her eyes again. "But my brother says that's stupid."

"Then I wish all folk were as 'stupid,' child."

She lifted her gaze and regarded him again. "Then why do you do it?"

"I must," he said simply. "I am not given a choice."

She seemed horrified. "They *make* you fight? Is that why you're in the cage, then? Because you don't want to fight, and they make you do it?"

"Yes, child."

"That's terrible." Tears welled up in the violet eyes; she took a step toward him.

Impulsively, Maximus reached out through the bars to cup her cheek. Her skin was as soft as the finest silk, and far warmer. With his thumb, he gently wiped away a tear as it trickled down her face. So young, she did not even know him, and yet she was weeping for *him.* "Don't cry, little one," he told her softly. "What is your name?"

She sniffed. "I'm Daenerys. My brother Viserys calls me Dany, sometimes."

Maximus gave her cheek one final stroke before withdrawing his hand. "Where is your brother? Is he here?" Surely someone was meant to be looking after her. Perhaps it was this brother.

She gestured vaguely. "He's here, with Ser Willem Darry."

"Is Ser Willem Darry your father?"

She shook her head. "My father's dead. My mother, too. She died when I was born." The little girl looked down at the ground again. "Viserys says that's my fault."

"No," Maximus said quietly. "Your brother is mistaken, Daenerys."

She lifted her silver head again, and he saw the flash of surprise in her lovely eyes. Perhaps she was not used to having her brother's opinion contradicted. "Really?"

He gave her a reassuring smile. "Really."

She smiled tentatively. She seemed pleased, but uncertain, as if not used to more positive emotions. "What is your name, ser?"

_Spaniard, _he almost said, but for reasons he never fully understood, he spoke his true name instead. "Maximus Decimus Meridius."

"Maximus," she repeated, sounding pleased. "That's a good name. It means 'the greatest,' doesn't it?"

He found himself smiling back. "Yes, it does."

"You're nice. I really like you!" she declared with a child's candor, and he laughed. She pointed at his breastplate. "Are those pictures of your horses?"

He sobered a little, remembering. "They were my horses. Argento and Scarto. They were taken from me."

"When they locked you up?"

He nodded silently. "They" had taken even more from him than that, but it was not something he wished to tell a stranger, much less a child so young.

She gazed at him, her expression gone sad again. "I love horses. I don't have one of my own, but I had a kitten once. Viserys killed her. He said it was so she wouldn't scratch me, but I don't think that was why he did it. I think he killed my kitten because she scratched *him.*"

"Daenerys!" A petulant voice called out loudly.

Daenerys whipped around, her eyes gone wide with fear. A boy in his early teens, with the same coloring as her own—clearly the brother—stomped up to her and grabbed her roughly by the arm. "Where have you been? Why are you talking to this man?"

"She has done no harm," Maximus said. "Leave her be."

The boy stared at the gladiator, as if surprised that he knew how to speak. Then he rounded on his little sister again, shaking her. "Don't you have any pride? You're a *Targaryen!* We do not speak to slaves!"

The little girl winced in obvious pain from her brother's manhandling. Maximus' own arm shot out, grabbing the boy by his long silver hair and yanking him back so hard that his head struck the bars and he yelped. It also forced him to release the girl. "I said, leave her be."

The boy struggled uselessly. He must have been about thirteen or fourteen, but it seemed as if he was about to burst into angry tears. "Let go of me!" he cried shrilly. "I am the dragon!"

Daenerys backed away from them both, eyes wide.

"Cease!" a voice called.

Maximus eased his hold, but did not release the boy completely. The girl turned and ran. A tall, heavyset, slightly overweight man with gray hair was bearing down on the cage where the gladiator was. The boy howled, "Ser Willem! Make this brute let me go!"

"Release him, ser," the man said. His hair was a solid iron-gray, he wore an eye patch, and while his muscles were currently running to fat, he looked as if he had been a formidable fighter in his youth. His complexion was florid and his eyes bloodshot. He did not look healthy, but he carried a sword at his waist, and he looked as if he knew how to use it. Maximus was not afraid, but he could not hold this obnoxious boy by the hair forever, and dashing the brat's brains out, however tempting, had its disadvantages. He released his hold.

The boy staggered forward, rubbing the back of his head and glaring at Maximus. "I hope you die in the arena," he whispered venomously.

Ser Willem cuffed the boy. "That's enough, Viserys! Where has your sister run off to? I sent you to find her, not to play around the gladiator's cage."

"She would not have run off at all, had this boy not treated her so harshly," Maximus said. "Better go find her."

"We don't need a slave telling us our business," the boy sneered, but the gray-haired man interrupted him.

"Viserys, what have I told you? You must be kinder to your sister. Each of you is all the other has left in this world."

"She should do as I say," the boy said sulkily. But Ser Willem was already ignoring him, looking past him at a tiny figure in the crowd.

"Daenerys! There you are, little princess! We have been looking all over for you."

The little girl had returned, holding a bunch of wildflowers in her hand. She smiled shyly at the gray-haired man, but she slipped past both him and her brother to stand directly before the gladiator cage. Her small, thin hands slid through the bars, joining on the other side to hold her pathetic bouquet out to Maximus. As she held out the flowers, the sleeves of her garment rode up, exposing pale traces of old bruises.

"These are for you," she told him. Her beautiful eyes were again filled with sadness as she gazed up at him. "I'm sorry they took your horses. I think it's mean that they make you fight. I'm really sorry they keep you locked in that cage, Maximus. I would let you out if I could."

Wordlessly, he accepted her small offering. It was only a few flowers, the stems torn and ragged, as they clearly had been picked in haste. But the blooms were cupped carefully, protectively, in her small hands as she held them out to him. The general-turned-slave accepted it as gently and respectfully as if it were an offering worthy of the gods. "Thank you."

"Come along, Daenerys," Ser Willem said, lifting her up in his arms. "We must go now."

"Take care of her," Maximus said.

Ser Willem seemed to be about to say something intended to put the slave in his place, but clearly thought better of it. He contented himself with saying, "Come along, Viserys." The three went off together, Daenerys looking at Maximus over Ser Willem's shoulder until they were separated by the bodies of the crowd.

Maximus looked down at the small bouquet in his hands. He lifted the flowers to his nose and inhaled. The scent of lavender was the strongest, reminding him of his wife's garden at home. What had been his home. For just a moment, in spite of all he had already suffered, already endured, he was dangerously close to weeping. His eyes closed and his fists tightened convulsively as he fought back tears. By the time he opened his eyes once more, the girl and the other two had disappeared from his sight.

Suddenly and irrationally, Maximus felt the urge to pray. He did not know if the gods were listening to any prayers from him—recent evidence seemed to suggest that they were not—nor did he even know if the gods still knew or cared that he still lived.

But he offered two prayers anyway. He begged his ancestors and the gods alike for two things; one, that the girl Daenerys would live to grow up. Two, that she would become a queen. The latter prayer was completely irrational under the circumstances, but one need not have anything but hope in order to offer a prayer. He had nothing to offer the gods as a sacrifice for these petitions, though. Nothing, that is, except the gift he had just been given.

Maximus knelt down, scraped a shallow hole in the dirt of the cage, and then carefully lowered the wildflowers into it, covered them all with the dirt, and patted and smoothed the earth back into place, softly repeating the two prayers as he did so.

He rose to his feet. _For Daenerys, _he whispered, to himself and to whatever gods or benevolent spirits might be listening. Then he returned to his seat, picked up the sword, and resumed sharpening it. The arena still awaited him.


End file.
